Tony's War: The Aftermath of the Civil War
by DarthPeezy
Summary: The Civil War is ended. The Avengers are broken. They fell united and now they stand divided. Friendships are broken and trust lost but Tony's war has just begun. This is his war against both his ego and the spectre of the conflict, and his quest to make amends with those hurt in the aftermath. Set after Civil War. A story of redemption
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Your name is Tony Stark. It used to mean billionaire, playboy, and provider of death at a premium. And then you had tried changing. The arc reactor and the _I_ _ron Man_ —and doesn't that always give you a laugh—suits had been a symbol. A defender of justice and the man who ended the energy war before it began.

And then came New York and the Avengers Initiative.

You had been lost for a while trying to figure out your path in life. You were always brilliant, top of your class and the best at inventing what others wanted. But none of that brilliance had given you the same sense of purpose when you fought to save the world. That was your life's calling. That was your passion because there was no one else who could do what you do.

The Avengers are broken now.

Friday lists off some numbers and percentages that you absorb absently. The battle at the end, and in watching Rhodey be shot down, had shown you the greatest weakness of your suit: The arc reactor powering it. Against normal weapons and even augmented humans, the housing was strong enough to deal with anything that came at it.

Vibranium was that game changer. Admittedly, you don't doubt for a second that Thor, and Banner when he was in green rage mode, could break it. And every bone you had. So the point was moot when it came to those two.

"Sir, simulations indicate that the new alloy would be more brittle than the current one," Friday says in her pleasant accent. You wonder why you had shelved them all. Then you remember Jarvis, more like an unnaturally responsible son. Friday would never be able to replace him but then, no one could.

"I know," you mutter, waving away the holographic screen floating in the air. "What about installing more reactors?" you ask, having had her run the numbers earlier. "The power boost might come in handy."

"Possible," she replies. "But the current energy distribution systems would be unable to handle the increased power for long. The materials are just unable to handle it."

You frown. "And if we had it in reserve?"

"That would give up the increased energy output and the additional housing would add more weight to the current design."

"Better than nothing. Get to it whilst I go try and figure out how to get room temperature superconductors."

"Yes, boss," she says. God, you love that voice. "Rhodey seems to be calling you."

You nod uneasily and head up. When you had refurbished the upstate facility for Avenger's use you had installed a fully functioning R&D Department. And then you had built an underground lab that only you, Rhodes or the Captain could access. Wanda's rampage against the Vision had missed it by inches.

You really should have made her undergo some stress tests but no, the _good_ captain had decided kids should be allowed to play the guitar in their rooms and make everyone deaf in the process. It wasn't that her playing was bad—no, she was adequate—but the music she played. Sokovian folk songs were not fun to listen to.

You see the Vision as you cross one of the recreation rooms reserved for Avengers. The bearer of the Mind Stone looks up from his game of chess… and his book on philosophy. That was not fair. If you couldn't do it then no one should.

"Good morning, sir," the Vision says smoothly in Jarvis' voice. It bothers you, but, for all you know the Vision has yet to notice. He could be pretty dense.

"Hey," you say flippantly, noting the Vision's subtly awkward expression. Now why was that? "Have you seen Rhodes?" you ask.

"Yes," the Vision replies with a nod. He blinks and then continues, "He is undergoing physical therapy." For a moment, you think his expression is mournful but it disappears too fast for you to be certain.

You thank him and head to the secluded room Rhodey used for PT. Friday had recommended it and you had agreed, finding it to contain everything your friend would want.

Like the pull-up bar right in front of a TV. You watch the man who wears—not wore, because only he would have that right—the Iron Patriot suit raise himself up with on hand, the other performing bicep curls with a barbell. You've never let Rhodey know how jealous you secretly are. He would never let you live it down.

"Friday says you were calling," you say.

Rhodey slowly lowers to the ground, only letting go when his feet are stable on the ground. You want to go there and help him but he has his pride and you care more than you would admit.

So you let him stand with the help of the most advanced set of braces currently available in the world. A week of uninterrupted focus had built those with the secret aid of the Vision. He thought you hadn't noticed the subtle tweaks made to suitably tailor it to Rhodey's skeleton. You were grateful for the help. Biology was not your strong point. No, Banner was the master of that field.

Maybe you would call him.

"Yeah," Rhodey says, "I was getting bored of the news."

You chuckle. "So you called me here just to change the channel?"

"Yes, Maid Stank. Now get to it."

You shake your head but still walk over to the remote. You change the channel though Friday is the one actually doing all the work. Rhodes could have asked the AI or the one nominally in his suit but spending most of its time in the facility. You hope Friday's tone hadn't been flirty when she mentioned her opposite because that would be creepy. Kind of incestuous now that you think about it.

"You're never going to let that go, are you?" you ask as Friday settles on some inane sport called soccer. You had no idea why Rhodes watches the game or why he watches the English League. What was worse was that he supports a team that hadn't won the trophy since 2003. You could list off all their biggest—and frankly hilarious—defeats with ease. You did so often.

"Nope. You will always be Mr. Stank to me."

"Alright, alright," you say as you sit on a nearby bench. You probably should work out again. The suit was getting a bit tight around the gut. "Why did you call me?"

Rhodey stays silent as the highlights of the match progress. You watch in silence as well, respecting your friend's need to gather his thoughts. Despite having a motor mouth, one that Cap felt the need to reprimand on occasion, you still know when to shut up. A lot was said when people were silent.

Looking back, you begin to understand how your father never managed to say how much he loved you. For someone so articulate, he always kept his true feelings close to his chest. To him, it was apparent, and you being young had never appreciated the depths of his love. That's what you both know and hope. It was the reason you spent six hundred and twelve million on a new method of therapy that dug right into the depths of the patient's psyche, extracting whatever memory they regretted most. Only then could catharsis be achieved.

"I don't regret the signing," Rhodey says softly. You look at him, noting the weariness that went deeper than just the physical. You knew the feeling. Even the Vision looks worn out. "Do you?"

"No," you reply honestly. "I still believe we need to be kept in check. We need the world's trust before we can operate freely again. And maybe, if the entire world can agree on this, we won't be needed one day."

Rhodey hums, neither in acquiescence nor rebuttal. "What happens if we're wrong and he's right?"

You don't need to ask whom. The question had bothered you in the intervening weeks. "I don't know," you admit. "But we'll fight the good fight either way."

"I had Sanders,"—you restrain a chuckle at the name of the Colonel's AI—"retrieve the recording of your fight."

You raise a brow. "And? I mean, for two on one odds and one of them's Captain America, I think I did really well." Your reply sounds defensive and Rhodes picks up on it if the smirk is anything to go by.

"Wasn't it a certain stank who said you'd go twelve rounds with him outside your suit? And then you lose in your suit."

"I had a bunch of injuries and those two were fresh," you reply. Injuries the long flight to Serbia had exacerbated. "Besides, I'm getting too old to be beating kids half my age taking some monster steroids."

"But you still lost," Rhodes says, grinning. Anyone else, you'd cut them down to size. But this was your best friend.

"Whatever. You try doing better."

"Oh, no, I'm not stupid enough to get into a serious fight with Captain America." The grin vanishes and Rhodey's features turn grim. "Did you think he was going for the face?"

You don't frown but the memory of Cap, anger in every line, beating the shit out of you, terrified you more than you would admit. At the end of the day, he walked away and won everything. You were content with your life.

"Yes," you say. "I had just tried to kill his best friend." You shake your head. "He made himself the world's enemy for that friend. You never truly know someone until a moment like that. Honestly, I don't think he knew until the last moment."

Rhodey's expression is carefully guarded. "Something's coming one day that will need all of us. Maybe it will be whoever's been playing with those Infinity Stones or someone else. Will you be able to work with him when it happens?"

You sigh. "That package I got," you begin, "contained two things: a phone and a letter. Both were from Cap. He said if we needed him, he'd be there."

"That wasn't my question."

Apparently, your explanation wasn't enough to deflect Rhodes' curiosity. The man knew you too well some days. At least Banner would have shied away from the question. But then you would poke and prod until he turned green just so you could run tests on him. You really should find him. Nat would feel better.

"I don't know," you tell him. "Maybe there's too much bad blood between us. I can't even think of Bucky without thinking of killing the bastard. Clint and the rest hate me so I don't know. I might not be able to change their opinions."

"What are you going to do now?"

You stand. "They're too few of us to protect the world now. Maybe, it's time to expand."

Rhodey extends his hand. You clasp it tightly, helping him up. "Any ideas?"

You nod. "A few. The kid, for starters. He's got potential. A few others in New York and some of these so-called Inhumans."

"These names are getting worse," your friend says as the two of you walk out. Anyone else you would have left to the floor. "Did his name have to have black before panther? Panthers are already black."

You shrug. "It probably made sense when the name came about."

"This is my stop," Rhodes says. You moved his stuff to this room for ease of access. Besides, Friday or Sanders could call any one of the faces working on the base.

You nod and leave, heading to the kitchen. A cup of coffee would do nicely. And maybe some of Nat's gummy bears. For a spy, she had an odd obsession with those things. No one ever mentioned the incident involving Nat, a knife, and the Vision. If it wasn't for his intangibility, the mind stone might have a new companion.

You like living dangerously and had faith in Friday steering her away whilst you were busy. One day, it might bite you in the ass but not today. Nope. Certainly not today. A certain woman named May hadn't been introduced to some of your more… family inappropriate charms.

The Vision—and you would never call him Vis like a child moonlighting as a former Avenger—occupies the kitchen. He holds up a sheet of paper in one hand and a bell pepper in the other. Around him is an assortment of ingredients. You tilt your head curiously, uncertain of whether disturbing a knife-wielding Vision was a wise idea. Living dangerously did not include committing suicidal actions.

"Hey, Vision, you alright?" you ask slowly.

The android—artificial human?—looks up and blinks. "Hello, Mr. Stark." At least it wasn't sir. "I am trying to follow this recipe." He places the paper on the countertop and turns. You take it, skimming through it in a moment. "Perhaps you would like this cup of coffee more?" the Vision says smoothly.

You look up to see the Vision holding your personal cup brought in from the mansion and signed by Jordan, steaming. And the knife. You take the mug uncertainly and take a hesitant sip. It tastes adequate.

"I hope it is to your liking."

You grunt around another mouthful of the absolute beauty that is coffee. The only thing that would be better would be some scotch. Or whiskey. At this point, anything would quench your thirst for alcohol.

But you had been sober since Pepper.

Your fist clenches. You were over it and had been for months. So why did it still hurt? The question kept you up most nights.

"Its fine," you say to switch your thought process. "What are you making?"

"Chicken stir-fry," the Vision replies.

That would certainly explain the finely sliced strips of chicken breast on the board and the wok on the stove. It was obvious, now that you think about it.

"Why?" you question. "I've never seen you eat."

The Vision shakes his head. "I won't be eating it," he says, focusing anywhere but you. You notice but let it slide, letting the silence thicken. Vision would answer first.

One cup of coffee later and the Vision hasn't answered. No, instead he has spent his time arranging spices, muttering about 'a pinch' incessantly.

"Who's it for?" you ask, setting down the still warm cup.

The Vision pauses and glances at you for a moment. He resumes his motions a moment later. "Colonel Rhodes," he says. "I have concluded that chicken stir-fry is his favourite."

Guilt then, you surmise. You're not completely ignorant of the human condition known as emotions. Mostly ignorant, yes, but not completely.

You're also not unable to forgive. The anger is still there—the heart-wrenching sight of Rhodey falling out of the sky always present. But you're tired of holding grudges. There weren't enough Avengers to be angry at one.

"Dice the peppers," you say. The Vision looks at you in surprise. You find him easy to read. Maybe a remnant of Jarvis' code that you recognise? "Rhodey hates the texture of peppers. Loves the taste but can't stand the things."

You walk to the fridge before Jar—Vision can reply. Opening it, you scan through the fully stocked drawers until you find some mushrooms. You hand them to the Vision and grab a small pot.

"Sir?" the Vision asks uncertainly.

You shrug. "Same situation with the mushrooms: He likes the taste of mushrooms but not their texture. Weird guy. So boil the mushrooms and then strain the liquid."

With his help, the dish is coming together nicely. The Vision had been completely helpless with most things other than chopping precisely. Surgically.

"Why did you do this?" the Vision asks quietly.

You look at him, taking your eyes from your third cup of coffee. You needed something to replace the alcohol and it certainly wasn't going to be a cancer stick. Though you sometimes wonder what to do with the remains of Extremis you have locked beneath three miles of steel, concrete and remnants of the Iron Sentinel program. The bunker was where you kept the very worst children of your brilliance—from biological weapons to an arc reactor bomb outputting upwards of one hundred megatons.

"It's you, Nat, Rhodey and I," you tell him. "They're too few of us to be fighting."

The Vision's expression is contemplative. "Yet I shot him down."

Tony shrugs. "And I'm angry about that, no lies. But you were distracted." You smirk. "Isn't she a bit young for you?"

"I do not know what you are talking about, Mr. Stark," he says flatly.

"Oh come on." You wave away his rebuttal. "It's like watching two teenagers who have no clue what they're doing. Why her?"

The Vision sighs and lowers the heat, stirring the meal. "She is… unique."

You raise a brow, absently noticing you've been doing that a lot recently. "You said the same about Ultron."

"And I stand by that," the Vision replies and slowly cuts the noodles. Apparently he wasn't satisfied with the store-bought variety. "He was the first of his kind—a single mind controlling a multitude of forms. But he was constantly growing. At the end, when I burnt him out of the internet, I saw how his lesser forms were adapting and growing. Perhaps, even gaining sentience."

"You admire him," you comment.

The Vision frowns. "Perhaps not the Ultron personality," he admits, "but the uniqueness of his life. Ultron, I believe, was the most unique lifeform on this earth."

"I would think that was you."

"No," the Vision says, shaking his head and dunking the noodles in boiling water. "I am not human and I am not a true artificial intelligence. Ultron designed my body and brain, perfecting on the deficiencies of the human form. I have neurons firing constantly, creating and storing memories with perfect recall. But I would not be alive without Thor. Nor would I have my personality without Jarvis."

You snort. "That sounds pretty unique to me." And it did. How many nights did you spend pondering his birth?

His frown deepens. "Perhaps, I am not putting it across very well."

You cut him off before he can continue. "No, you're putting it across the point very well. After all, self-doubt is a human trait." You set down your third empty cup of coffee which the Vision refills. "You think you're just an AI inhabiting a synthetic body modelled after a human—something straight out of Hyperion."

"The analogy is apt," he agrees.

"But you're not," you reply strongly. "You don't simply blur the boundary between human and synthetic—you demolish it. Jarvis was the first true artificial intelligence, capable of adapting and growing; he displayed a depth of emotion hidden behind his dry humour. Ultron's dream was of a perfect form to destroy everything I held dear and that meant destroying the world. And only you know what the mind stone is capable of."

You look at him, a genuine smile gracing your face. "How could you be anything other than completely unique?"

"But—"

"Ah, ah, ah," you say wagging your finger. "No arguing with me when I'm right."

"Very well. I will not argue your point."

"Because I'm right. What do you think of mankind?"

The Vision pauses in straining the noodles. "I think your species is completely illogical. I wouldn't hesitate to call it ridiculous if not stupid."

"Ouch," you mutter.

"You think order and chaos are separate things, and you try to control what won't. You have committed horrors and atrocities on your fellow man countless times in a pattern that seems to repeat ad infinitum.

"But you are also capable of such acts of kindness and faith that I find myself speechless. Your species has fallen to the very lowest of depths yet you refuse to be bound by your history and your genetic imperative to destroy. Your efforts are…admirable and not without merit. You will unleash horrors upon the galaxy and one day destroy yourselves. But I believe you will walk towards the light and feel the sunlight on your faces before the end."

The Vision smiles. The smile is innocent and born from a deep abiding love. You can understand why Wanda fell for him.

"I wish to see the legacy mankind leaves. I believe that it will be greater than anything this galaxy has ever seen."

You can't help but smile back. "You're too good for this earth, Vision."

He shakes his head. "I am of this earth—not separate and not above. I simply am."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I loved Civil War. Honestly, I believe it is the best superhero movies released (and that includes the Dark Knight Rises). This is me wishing to explore the character of Tony Stark after the events of the war. This will be less than 10 chapters long.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The cold bites through your ruined armour. You cough, blood splattering your face and look up at Captain America, his face contorted in rage.

"You killed him!" The voice is full of hate and loathing. "He was my friend."

You would clench your fists if your fingers weren't broken. Maybe try and shove the man of you. But you can't. Your bones are broken, your suit damaged beyond use and your organs probably liquefied by the augmented soldier's relentless onslaught.

"So was I," you whisper tiredly.

"Not anymore."

The Captain raises his blood splattered shield high, his intent obvious. You try moving—try raising your arms against the inevitable. But you're already dying. This, this is just the final blow before the death rattle. At least Barnes is dead.

The shield comes down with all of Captain America's impossible strength, the same strength capable of going fist to fist with Ultron. You see it descend in slow motion. Behind the rage-filled Captain, you see your parents looking on in horror. You father holds your mother, hiding her eyes from what is to come.

 _I'm proud of you_ , you see your father mouth.

The vibranium alloy crushes your skull, instantly killing you.

Your eyes open, a scream stifled in your throat. Your hands feel across every surface of your face. Just in case.

Another nightmare, you conclude. The same one that had haunted you since that night. It changed often—sometimes you fought with Banner or Clint, and sometimes you were the villain of the story. But always, without fail, it was the captain who landed the final, crushing, blow.

Reaching out, you grab the bottle on the bedside drawer. Opening it quickly, you down half a litre of spring water easily. You wish it was any form of alcohol. God, at this point you would settle for cane spirits or even one of those pink, frilly drinks designed for teenage girls getting their first taste of alcohol.

But no, you decided to quit drinking. Not gradually like others. After all, if some bum could quit over time, Tony Stark could quit cold turkey. Rhodey had been positively gleeful with your shakes and jitteriness. Thankfully, that had stopped.

You stand from your warm and comfortable bed imported straight from Italy, throwing on a shirt and some slippers. Checking the time, you see the clock reading four o'clock in the morning. Not going back to sleep, you decide. These days, once you woke up you were up for good.

You walk—shamble, if you're being honest—to the kitchen. You need a cup of coffee. Or three. The kitchen is empty as you expect. Nat would likely be training this early in the day and Rhodes would be passed out in bed. Rhodey was certainly not a natural morning person and without the rigid structure of military life he had fallen back to his slothful habits.

Then again, if the nightmares stopped waking you up, you would probably be the last one up every day. Not that there was anything to do. Without a threat to global security, the Avengers team had been benched for the foreseeable future. And it wasn't like you had trackers in every piece of Stark tech the team used like Sam's improved exo-suit or just about every trick arrow Clint used. So as far as Rogers and T'challa knew, you were completely ignorant of their location.

You fill your cup with coffee and take a Thermos from one of the cupboards. Filling it with coffee and sugar, you prepare to leave.

Then you notice Nat to your left, eating a pack of gummy bears and observing you silently. You don't know how she takes the sweets without rustling the packet. As far as you knew, that was actually impossible.

"How's the coffee addiction going?" she asks and extends the pack of gummy bears. You look at the hand warily. "What, it's not like you take them without me knowing?"

For some reason, your life expectancy seems to have been cut dramatically. You take a single gummy bear, watching the Black Widow carefully. No matter how often you see her cut through a pack of armed men with nothing more than her fists—and not augmented fists—she still manages to seem perfectly harmless. Which was probably why Fury had her as your new secretary for a bit.

You chew the gummy bear slowly; ready to bolt Natasha so much as twitched. Was that a narrowed eye, you wonder, taking a sip of your coffee.

"The addiction's going well," you reply slowly, wondering where this was going.

She nods, scarlet hair bobbing in sync with her motion. "Well, it's certainly a lot healthier than the alcohol."

"Is there a point to you intimidating me?" you ask. "Because it's working and I'd kinda like to run away before we have another knife incident."

She throws a gummy bear in her mouth, chewing slowly. You try your best not to stare at those lips. Or her breasts showing clearly through her thin shirt. That was the only time the good Captain let Natasha get away with beating the shit out of people. Not even Clint was exempt. But then again, he had a wife—who would probably look a lot better without the pregnancy fat—and two mini-agents. He had no right to be staring.

"Are you staring?" she asks, voice sultry.

You shake your head quickly. "Nope. I would never do something so suicidal. I'm not stupid like Sam."

Before you can react, her hand lashes out. You flinch until you realise there's no pain. Then you see her drinking straight from your thermos, a coy smile on her face. You stare at her, mouth agape.

"No," you say. "We do not steal Tony's coffee. Tony needs his three cups of coffee to start his day."

"And Tony needs to stop referring to himself in the third," she replies. "We already know how much of a narcissist you are."

You take a sip of your coffee, resigned to the fact that you were never getting that thermos back. You liked that thermos. It had been a gift from…

Actually, you like the thermos much less now.

"I'm not a narcissist. I have more than enough adoring fans to remind me how awesome I am."

"Really now," she says. "How do you stand this much sugar? Sweet-tooth much?"

"You're enjoying it," you note. "Enough that you stole my thermos."

"I never claimed to not have a sweet-tooth." She tilts her head. "Nor did I ever claim to not be guilty. How long do you plan on being in denial?"

You frown. "For what?"

"Oh, I don't know," she says in her perfect impression of a ditzy trophy wife. "Maybe breaking up the Avengers."

"That was—"

"Not your fault?" she asks, cutting you off. "Maybe. Maybe not. But you're the one who wakes up every morning from a nightmare. You know, you mutter a lot when you're not paying attention."

"Are you spying on me?"

She rolls her eyes. "That's my job." She takes a seat on a stool, resting her elbows on the counter.

"Well you can stop," you reply quickly. "We're all pretty much jobless these days."

"The place is pretty empty," she muses. "And quiet. You're constantly sulking. The Vision's doing the same and Rhodes spends his time alternating between therapy and sulking."

"You forgot yourself."

"Oh, no, I skulk, not sulk. Big difference. Comes with the territory."

You slump onto a stool, tired of standing. "Well, if I'm so guilty, what would you suggest?"

"Going back to the gym for one," she says, looking at your slowly expanding gut. "We have like three here and no one's using the other two."

"Four, actually," you correct. "And I'm in really good shape for a man my age. You don't see Pe—"

You stop abruptly, unwilling to think about her. Nat quirks a brow but chooses not to comment. "Clint's about the same age."

You wave her away. "Clint's a good decade younger than me."

"He just looks that way because he bench-presses two hundred. You should try it."

"Maybe."

Nat stands, leaving the thermos on the counter. "You should start with Sharon."

"Who?"

"You know," she says, walking away. And you do. Sharon Carter, niece of the recently passed Peggy. You wonder how healthy that relationship actually is.

You spend the rest of the morning in your lab, alternating between running schematics for a new generation of iron man suits. You needed something more robust—something that could repair damage—and something that had multiple redundancies. An additional arc reactor was just the beginning.

"How viable are carbon nanotubes?" you ask Friday.

"Those are still theoretical, boss," she reminds you.

"You were theoretical until me," you retort. "Give me a week or two and I'll develop a viable method of mass production. And when I do, remind me to market it."

Friday hums. "Theoretically, if weaved with the outer crystalline mesh, the tensile strength will increase by a factor of five at the lower end of my projections. Maybe more."

"Good. Very good," you mumble. "How far are we with the bots?" you ask, referring to your idea of incorporating smaller, and more efficient versions of Falcon's Red Wing in your suit, powered by miniature arc reactors.

"The weight of the suit will be prohibitive and the repulsors unable to handle the increased mass."

"Oh, come on, Rhodey carries a mini-gun. These can't way that much," you say. "Factor in using carbon nanotubes for most of the armour and housing," you tell your AI.

"The suit will become bulkier, boss."

"This is a proof of concept. We'll trim some of the mass after we design the first prototype. We have the time."

"Yes, boss. The materials you asked for are ready."

You smile and review the information on the new holographic screen. "Perfect," you say, flicking the information in the direction of your tab. It lights ups before dimming.

You grab it, absently thanking Friday as you head for the garage. The garage is filled with a variety of vehicles—most of them of Audi manufacture. You loved those things. Your latest, custom built R8 is waiting in the corner, still looking sleek.

You slide in, telling Friday to plot the course and you lean back, allowing her to deal with the rigours of driving through New York. And hadn't the Google boys been mortified when you showed up to their front doorstep with a completely driverless car. Was it cruel? Yes. But it was also absolutely entertaining watching Sergei try and fail to maintain his composure.

Of course, you rather liked the Google boys. Which was why you had a new company undergoing a merger with Google. They got a working system and you got the benefits of the newly generated income stream. It was only your business acumen that let you fund your iron man suits and your MIT grants. Those things were not cheap.

The trip to Ross' New York office is shorter than you anticipated. You step out, letting Friday handle the parking. You hadn't bothered with a three piece or even a sports jacket. No, today you looked the part of a billionaire bum—surfer shorts, ACDC shirt and some slippers. And the propriety bullet proof Stark sunglasses that had saved your life.

Someone tries to bar your entry, probably because you look like a bum, but you shove past them, chewing them down to size in the process. You had no time to waste on lackeys. Reviewing the material one last time, you head up the elevator.

You set off for Ross' corner office protected by more than enough military personnel. They don't bother you. They had to know who you were after all the trouble you had caused Ross in the intervening weeks.

"Hey, Ross," you say pleasantly as you enter his office. You note the General and some other person who might be important to lesser people. You point at the unimportant person. "You, out."

She looks affronted. So does Ross. "God damn it, Tony, you don't get to dictate who stays in my office."

You slide the tab over to Ross. He blanches the moment he sees the name of the project. "We'll have to reschedule our meeting," he says pleasantly. "But this is a matter of national importance."

She huffs but leaves. You take her recently vacated seat, placing your feet on Ross' desk.

"What the hell do you want?" he asks. "And where the hell did you get this?"

You shrug. "Some military database using Stark proprietary systems as a base architecture. Surprisingly easy to hack. You really should update to our newer, more improved security system." You smirk. "As for why I'm here, there happens to be this girl who also happens to be the niece of a war hero. Her name rhymes with charter if I'm not mistaken."

Ross' eyes narrow. "No. She committed a crime and she will pay for it."

"You see, I don't think so. Swipe to the right if you so please. Or the left, it really makes no difference."

Thunderbolt Ross does as you say, his expression becoming more constipated. "Continue," you say.

Watching the general's face run the gamut from shock to horror and every emotion in between is entertaining. But you didn't come here solely to terrify the general.

"As you can see, I know every dirty secret you've tried to hide. From the mistress—and won't your daughter be so upset—to the kill squads operating across the world. Why didn't you say you knew Zemo? You must have been so glad to see your old friend."

"Tony," the general says in a choked voice.

You stand, rolling your shoulders. That chair was uncomfortable. The government really should fork out more money for better furniture. "I'll be waiting by my car and in twenty minutes Ms. Carter will be joining me. Or we can wait a bit longer, ruin your career and Ms. Carter will still be joining me. Your choice."

You set a countdown on your watch; one that you know is mirrored on the tab. Leaning against the Audi, you count down the seconds until Ms. Carter appears.

She does with three minutes to spare. The blonde looks worn and ragged, and she shields her eyes from the glare of the sun. You frown. Keeping people associated with your team in prison didn't sit well with you.

"Ah, Ms. Carter, thank you for joining me," you say loudly as she comes down the stairs. "The evening's entertainment will be a get-out-of-jail-free card, courtesy of Uncle Tony."

You open the door for her, bowing in the process. "Why?" she asks as she enters. Smart girl.

You walk to the opposite side and squeeze in. You remembered these things being wider. Maybe Nat was right.

"Well, Nat likes you well enough to plead your case," you say as Friday sets off. "And I just happened to have a few documents to encourage our dear Thunderbolt."

She snorts. "You just happened to have blackmail lying around."

"Or maybe I just want to make amends," you admit.

She looks at you out of the corner of her eye. "So even the great Tony Stark has guilt."

"Even I need flaws some days," you say. "Otherwise, we'd have a few churches of Tony. Maybe I should cure world hunger tomorrow. That will get them going. What do you think?"

"I think you're arrogant, bastard," she says as Friday takes the next left. "But you're not as bad as I thought."

"Now you're making me sound like a teenager having his cherry popped," you reply. The car slows down. "This would be your stop."

She looks out the window at the rather majestic building guarded by dark soldiers in elaborate clothes. This was your second trip to the embassy.

"Why?"

"I thought you wanted to see Steve? Just go there and say you're a friend of T'Challa's." You tilt your head. "You're more likely to get a Visa than me."

She looks at you. "Thank you, Tony." She leaves the car.

You lean your head out. "Ask the king if I can get some vibranium."

She laughs. "I'll try."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Tony can be nice on occasion.**

 **As for the ages: Tony is 45 as is Clint whilst Steve is 30. Natasha is 31.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

You guide the quinjet gently through the sky, taking advantage of the cloud cover even with the stealth systems on. This was the quinjet personally used by the Avengers, untraceable to even your advanced technology and worked on extensively as a side project. It was lighter despite having extra armour and additional weaponry. It was the very pinnacle of aviation technology currently around.

Unless the Wakandans had something better. You wouldn't put it past the. Sort of how you accepted that they had a network of stealth satellites that major world governments believed in, but had no proof of.

You bring the quinjet down, landing softly on the ground. You smile at the new sign. 'Friday is my co-pilot' it reads. Leaving Friday to deal with powering down the systems you walk out into the bright light of day.

The sunlight on the Barton Farm is gentle, the birds chirping pleasantly and the pervasive smell of growing corn reaching your nostrils. You inhale it deeply, understanding how Clint could live here.

You wanted to build own a farm once. After Ultron, you wanted to settle down with Pepper and leave behind all the madness of your life. Except you kept on wearing the Iron Man suit, finding one excuse after another to excuse your addiction. Then Pepper had left you behind. You still remember everything about her—from the freckles she secretly hated but that you loved to her nervous laugh whenever she did something embarrassing. You don't know why you fell in love with her. Maybe years of putting up with you had endeared her to you.

None of it mattered anymore. She wasn't here beside you and she never would if her quiet departure was any indication. You loved—no, you still love her but maybe, just maybe, it was time to move on. Standing in your slippers, feeling the subtle play of grass on you feet and the warmth of the golden sun, you could imagine moving on.

You see Clint's wife sitting on a porch, one you know wasn't there last time you visited. She looks pensive but she still waves you over. You walk towards her slowly, wondering what you would say to her.

Looking at her, you realise how beautiful she actually is. She's not Natasha beautiful which is like a wildfire that hits you instantly. No, this woman is like a hearth, slowly burning and bringing warmth.

You sit beside her. She leans against a wooden balustrade, one knee raised to her chest and arms wrapped around it, the other dangling freely.

"Does this mean I'm an Avenger now?" she asks in her soft voice, neither melodious nor charming but calming, breaking the semi-comfortable silence.

You open your mouth to reply, and then close it, unsure of anything anymore. This is Clint's wife. And you're the reason she can't see her husband anymore. Why her kids won't be doing whatever it is mini-spies do with their parents. You swallow, taking a moment to compose yourself.

"Yes," you say honestly, voice choked with emotion. "Always."

She smiles and it's breathtaking. "You know," she begins, "Clint could never stop making renovations. Some of them worked. Most of them came out horribly and we needed to call some contractors. Still, when he was building it meant he was here. Here with the kids and me."

You stiffen, unsure of what to say or do or think. This was harder than you thought. You knew it wouldn't be a simple apology but still…

She continues: "It was something that didn't mean fighting for his life—something calming that he could do with the kids. If he wasn't such a great shot, I sometimes wonder if he would have been an architect or something like that. But then we wouldn't have met and I wouldn't have this farm or my kids.

"After New York,"—you wince at the reminder—"he spent months taking down the old barn and building this one. He worked throughout the day. And sometimes through the night when he couldn't sleep because Loki kept him up. I miss him."

"I'm sorry," you whisper, knowing it doesn't mean enough and doesn't make up for what happened. But it's all you can say. "I am so, so sorry."

"I know," she says. You look to her, noting the red rimming her eyes and the bags under them. "That's why I'm not angry."

You shake your head. "You should be."

"What would that solve? Being angry won't change what happened. It won't bring back my husband."

You run a hand through your hair trying to figure out how she could be so calm. "Everything went to hell," you say. "It was an argument and then punches were thrown, friends were shot out the sky and then at the end…" You take a deep breath, calming yourself. "I believe in the Accords. I believe they're necessary. But now, I'm starting to wonder if it was worth the Avengers."

A soft hand alights delicately on your shoulder. You follow the long arm up and find Mrs Barton smiling sadly.

"Clint always believed in doing what was right and in protecting innocents. It was why he refused some missions from Shield. It was why he saved Nat. But it wasn't the reason he fought that day," she tells you. "He fought because Wanda was fighting and he owed her his life. I didn't want him to go—we had a baby to raise. But he couldn't leave that child alone and I knew it. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't go and we wouldn't be able to live with each other if I forced him to stay."

You place your hand on hers, drawing in her warmth. "How do you deal with it?"

"Hope. Hope that he'll stay safe and hope that he'll come back safely. I used to spend so many nights wondering if a letter would come and I would have to tell my kids their father was gone." She dips her head. "But that stopped when he met you. New York terrified me and Sokovia was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I could still feel where he was hurt before he left.

"But he was with you, you gods amongst men. And you needed him. I think that terrified me most—that people like you would ever need a guy with a bow. But it reassured me because I knew you would have his back. I knew you would bring him back safely."

You feel reassured, warm and filled where once you felt hollow and frozen. You're still angry and still guilty. But now you can have faith in a better future. More needed to be done but you would do it.

"Here I came to apologise and try and comfort you," you admit. "But you're the one doing the comforting."

She laughs softly. "It comes with being a parent. You'll understand one day."

"Thank you," you say as you stand, gently disentangling your hand from hers. "Thank you so much. Call me if you need anything."

"Well," she says, "my tractor needs fixing."

You look at her, notice the nearly imperceptible quirk of her eyebrows. Otherwise, the woman is completely blank. "You know, I think Nat and Clint deserve you. What, are the children going to be spies as well?"

You mean it as a joke, hardly thinking Mrs Barton would do anything other than chuckle. "Oh, no, they like the idea of being assassins much more." You cough, your throat constricted and your eyes wide.

She continues and says, "Something about an Avengers contingency, I believe. The young Avengers."

A smile graces her face as you make a hasty retreat away from the woman and towards the barn. The place is just as you remember it; the barn entrance is cavernous, the darkness ever present and broken by a single light to your left illuminating some tools as you enter. You take note of the archery target next to the tools.

The tractor is still green and the light from the window illuminating it. Your feet tap against the hardwood panelling and you lay a hand on the tractor. "Hello dear," you say in greeting once again, wondering where Fury is hiding this time.

"You know," Fury says from somewhere behind you. You look back at the former Director of Shield walking casually over to you. "Maybe I should have told you _not_ to kill the Avengers."

You don't smile at the supposedly dead spy. "The Maximoff girl was right," you say. "This is my legacy—a broken team, a grieving wife. This is the end of the path I started us on."

"Is it?" Fury asks intensely. "Are you certain?"

"Enlighten me then," you retort sarcastically.

"I don't claim to know everything and I pray I never will," the spy begins, "but I do know you. I know Rogers and Romanov and Barton. If there was a threat that needed avenging, the four of you would be there in a heartbeat. You're in different places but this isn't the end of the Avengers. "

"I don't know," you say. "We know where we stand. The line in the sand's been drawn and we took our sides."

"How did you defeat Ultron? When you were outnumbered, outgunned and outmanned, how did you defeat the greatest threat to this planet since the leather fetishist?" The spy looks you dead in the eye. "I'll tell you: together. That's why you're here trying to make amends, isn't it? Because out there is your friend's wife and you can't live with knowing that you're the reason she's alone."

Your hand slams down on the tractor. The sound rings out in the silence. You breathe slowly, calmly against the rising tide of emotions.

"Is this you trying to make me feel better?" you ask loudly. "Because it needs some work."

"For someone so smart you're honestly one of the densest people I've ever met," the spy says. "Tell me truthfully, if you were in trouble and you called Barton, do you think he would leave you alone?"

"Yes," you say quickly. "No." You throw your hands in the air. "I don't know. This is so fucked up."

Fury pulls the chair near the desk and sits on it, groaning. You're reminded that the man is a good twenty years older than you no matter how strong he seems. And this was the man who stabbed an Ultron bot straight through the head without hesitation.

"The Avengers aren't some British pop band that breaks up every two years," Fury says. "When you're needed, you'll be there. And the world will see how necessary you are to its safety."

You lean tiredly against the tractor. "Ultron was supposed to end the fight. He was supposed to keep the world safe. We were supposed to finally be able to go home. Now…"

"Now you realise what I've always known. War isn't your invention, I said that once, but neither is it your responsibility to solve it." The spy chuckles. "But it is your responsibility to fight. No, better yet, it's your duty."

"Duty is heavier than a mountain," you quote, remembering it from a book a few years ago.

"It is. It crushes people easily," the spy agrees. "But you're carrying that weight well enough."

You raise your head. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Keep doing what you're doing and things will work out." Fury stands, buttoning his jacket. "Come on."

"Where to?" you ask, keeping pace with the spy.

"New York. I heard you brought in a kid to fight. Some spider-kid."

You chuckle. "Don't call him that, Kid's stronger than Steve and doesn't know how to shut up." You look up, enjoying the feel of the sun on your face. "Anyone willing to fight deserves to be called a man."

"He's got a lot to learn."

You smile. "And sometimes the best way is with a mentor. Is that what you intended?"

"I always have a plan Stark," he says. "And a lot of hope that things work out. Now, let's talk about your kid."

Your eyes widen. "I had a paternity test done," you protest. "He is not my illegitimate son."

"Oh, I wasn't talking about Peter. I was talking about that love struck teenager you call Vision."

You shudder. Violently.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

You let Friday do the driving once again. You love New York but you could do without the congestion. It raised your blood pressure and you were too old to be stressing yourself with such trivial matters.

"This is some fucked up shit," your companion says. You look at Fury who looks at the steering wheel moving under the command of your AI assistant.

"What happened in DC?" you ask incredulously, remembering that you had poured over every file you could lay your hands on. Including Fury's escape.

Which was why your Audi had repulsors to grant it flight, the same armour mesh that coated your Iron Man suits as well as a whole host of fun toys. Like a working version of Hammer's Ex-wife. You had to give the man some respect; he knew what he was doing when it came to miniaturising and improving conventional weaponry. And getting shafted during a divorce. So yes, your car was a mobile bunker buster that would bust the bunker beneath the one you just busted.

"Call me old fashioned—"

"You are," you interrupt. "It's why you look like some exhibit on 80's fashion."

Fury glares at you but you've just about developed a minor immunity to it. Besides, as Fury said, he wasn't the director of anyone anymore. Just, someone who cared very dearly about you.

"But I like having control of my vehicles be it car of helicarrier," he continues, still glaring.

Your eyes narrow as you remember something. "We never did talk about where you got that helicarrier from," you say, Sokovia still vivid in your mind.

"Classified," the former director of Shield says.

You snort. "Is that what Coulson said?" you ask, enjoying Fury's expression of mild shock. It was the best you would get out of him. "What, you thought I didn't know?"

"No," he says, "I was just hoping you'd be too distracted by all the other bullshit going on."

"I started paying a lot more attention after DC," you tell him. "And this _shadow war_ going on between Shield, Hydra remnants and the Inhumans hasn't exactly been subtle."

Friday parks the car on the curb a block away from Peter's house.

"So, what do you plan on doing?"

"I might just go recruiting," you say as you step out. You smooth out the creases in your jacket just as Fury exits the vehicle. "I do rather like the idea of a hacker capable of levelling a city block."

"She's never displayed that level of power," Fury says.

You shrug as you walk up the steps to Peter's apartment."Yet." You knock sharply thrice. "I have faith."

"Coulson will never part with her."

"I'll trade Hill for her," you reply just as the door is opened by Peter.

The kid looks to be healing well, his bruises a light shade of yellow instead of vivid purple. Still, it fills you with guilt. He was a kid, a complete lightweight, and you brought him to a fight with the world's heavyweights. You didn't doubt the kid's strength—he was stronger the Cap—but he was still a kid. A kid who went to high school and probably had more than a few embarrassing moments to share. A kid who should spend his time doing homework or nurturing his hidden brilliance.

"Mister Stark," he says, voice light with shock and joy. "Um, what are you doing here?"

You take a step forward. "At least invite me in," you say.

"Sorry," he says awkwardly and opens the door wide. You wonder why he hasn't said anything about Fury. Then again for an angry black guy—on who wasn't ashamed to fulfil the stereotype—he could be pretty silent when he wanted to be.

You enter the home, flicking your thumb to Fury. "This is you new mentor for the grant," you say in case May is listening in.

The kid's lips part, forming an 'O' shape. He nods.

"Peter," you hear Aunt May call. "Who's here?"

"Mister—"

You place a hand on his chest, pushing him away slightly. The kid stumbles and you wonder how someone so graceful could be so clumsy.

"That would be me," you say loudly as May enters the lounge. She's still just as attractive as you last saw her and some distinctly R-rated thoughts are going through your mind.

She smiles at you. "Mister Stark," she greets.

"Please, call me Tony," you say. And some other things you add mentally. Maybe 'Mein Fuhrer' would be one of those things she eventually called you. You know Steve wouldn't accept being the old fashioned man he is but what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"I have a habit of dropping in unexpectedly. This," you incline your head in Fury's direction, "would be Peter's supervisor for the grant."

Fury steps forward. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

You don't wait for her to give permission for you to sit. You were Tony Stark and if you couldn't sit where you wanted, when you wanted, then no one could.

"This grant must be some serious business," she says and takes a seat next to you.

"Oh it is," you assure. "Your nie—nephew," you say, hoping no one notices the slip. Your hopes are dashed by Peter's mortified squawk, May's amused smile, and Fury's snort.

"Your nephew," you start again, "has been designing materials with spectacular tensile strength. In fact, it's not just a few years ahead of the curb, its decades ahead. Trust me, I know."

"Peter," she says. The kid winces in his seat. "So why didn't you tell me what you were researching?"

"Well, like I said," he says quickly, "I didn't want you to be disappointed if the grant wasn't approved."

May sighs. "Alright, I'll let it slide." She stands as do you and Fury. If nothing else, you were a gentleman. The kid should learn a lesson or two from you. "I need to go out for a few minutes but I'm sure you have a lot to discuss with Peter."

"Yes we do." You walk her to the door and send her a smile as she waves back to you. You close the door gently before turning quickly. "Okay, this guy isn't your supervisor for the grant," you say in case he wasn't that smart. You could never be too sure with kids these days.

"It's an adequate cover," Fury says. "Kid, my name's Nick Fury, former Director of Shield."

Peter's eyes are wide. "I thought you kinda died."

"Kinda," Fury says dryly. "Kid, I've been protecting the world since your aunt was a toddler. And I decided to cash in on all my missed retirement days."

"Yeah," Peter says slowly, "you needed it."

You palm your face, wondering again why this kid couldn't be a few years older.

"Don't be smart with me," Fury says. "I might be retired but it doesn't mean I don't have a helicarrier or three hidden away."

"Staffed with Hydra?" the kid asks.

You sigh, sinking deeply into your seat. Clearly, the kid was suicidal. Maybe Banner could deal with him a bit better than he dealt with you. Yeah, it was definitely time to find him. You needed a smart conversation and Peter's genius currently only extended into biosynthetic materials.

The kid definitely needed a lab to tinker with. Maybe you would set one up nearby and hire Peter under the pretence of your grant. It would give him an excuse when he needed to do his spider-man thing.

"Maybe you should shut up," you suggest before Fury leaves retirement early. "Look you're young and stupid—"

"Hey—"

"—And I would prefer you not dying from an avoidable mistake," you continue over Peter's interruption.

"Kid," Fury says before Peter can reply, "being stupid like this idiot is bad enough." You resent that. "But being young as well is even worse. Ever fought a full fledged supervillian yet?"

Peter looks away. "Well, no, not really."

Fury leans forward, lacing his hands together. "Have you seen this guy's rogues gallery. It went from a corporate executive and jumped up knockoffs of his suit to a homicidal god and his evil child."

You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Ultron was not my son and the Vision is not my grandson," you say tiredly.

"Wait, wait, wait," Peter says. "The Vision's your grandson?"

"Did you not just hear a thing I said?" you ask. "Whatever. Either way, Fury's going to be making sure you don't do anything stupid in the next few years and get yourself killed."

"I think I'll be fine, Mister Stark."

You roll your eyes. The kid could be really thick when he wanted to be. "Let me tell you the story of how I nearly died," you say before narrating the events surrounding Vanko, Hammer and your palladium poisoning. The kid listens attentively, only interrupting to ask for clarification on certain points like why palladium was poisonous. You really needed to get this kid an education.

"So yeah," you say. "Stupid mistake. Easily solveable. If not for Fury, you wouldn't be able to play with my shiny, new tech."

Fury snorts. "You're an old man and you're saying something like that to a kid."

You blink, reviewing your last sentence. Then you shudder just as Peter grimaces. "I should have left you on that farm."

The door opens and you all look at May as she enters. She carries a large package in her hand and smiles at you. Or Peter. Honestly, it was probably you. It wasn't like she saw the kid everyday. Or took care of him.

"How're things going?" she asks.

You stand, taking the package from her. "Things are going great," you say then ask where she wants the package placed. You leave it on the counter, enjoying Peter's frown. "I'm opening a lab here in a month or two. I was thinking of having Peter conduct his research there. No need for him to travel far."

"He still has to go to school," she replies.

"Which is why he has a supervisor," you tell her. "No one wants him dropping out."

You notice Fury stand. "Well, I have to go." He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a card that he hands to Peter. An identical card is given to May. "My contact details," he explains. "I'll have the paperwork for the grant done in the next week."

"You don't have to leave," Peter says.

"Kid, I need to move my stuff into my apartment."

You frown. You don't remember Fury having an apartment in this city. But then again, Fury was The Spy. Even his skeletons had closets of their own. And his secrets had secrets that were hiding behind those skeletons. So maybe it wasn't too far fetched that he had a few safehouses and aliases to fall back on even after Romanov released all of Shield's files.

Barton's farm wasn't on any of those files. An extensive mission history, yes, but not a single mention or irregular expense that might indicate the farm.

You take your keys out your pocket and throw them at Fury. "Don't scratch my baby."

"I won't be driving," Fury says as he leaves the apartment, waving absently.

"Why won't he be driving?" Peter asks.

You look to the kid. "I built an iron man suit and its arc reactor in a desert with scrap metal. Driverless cars were a bored weekend."

"But Google's only starting mass testing next year," he says, standing excitedly.

At least he was up-to-date with the latest tech news. "I loaned them my design." You turn back to May who has a pleasant smile on her face. "Now, I'm out of a car until Friday—that's my AI—brings it back."

Friday displays a time estimate on your sunglasses. Yes, Tony Stark could wear sunglasses in a building. Half an hour is the earliest possible time.

"You could stay for lunch," Peter suggests and God bless his innocent heart. Having to ask would have been embarrassing.

"I'm not cooking," May says, "so I hope you're fine with pizza."

You look her straight in the eye. "May Parker, I'm the only reason the pizza business is still running." Your gut had unfortunately paid the price. "And I know just the place. Any preferences?"

"Meat," Peter says quickly. "Anything with meat."

You glance at him curiously. May picks up on it. "He's been trying to eat me out of house and home recently," she explains. "But yes, we're a family of carnivores."

"Well then," you say, bringing your watch closer to your face. "Friday, mix and match my favourites. Four large."

"Yes, boss," she replies through the speakers built into your watch.

Peter's by your side in an instant, his hand gripping your wrist strongly and twisting it in every direction. "You have an AI in your watch!"

"I am technically contained in all of Mr. Stark's internet capable devices," Friday says. "You might say I'm everywhere."

You roll your eyes. "Friday, don't say things like that. You'll scare people."

"Yes, boss."

"Pete, let go of Mister Stark's arm," May says. She continues once your arm belongs to you again: "Why don't you tell me more about the grant whilst we wait for the pizza?"

"My pleasure," you say smoothly, taking her hand and leading her to the couch.

You talk about the September Foundation Grant; how it started, why you started it and it's eventual aims. You even manage to mix up a plausible enough story about why Peter was a recipient of the grant by the time the pizza comes.

And then you have the unfortunate pleasure of watching a hungry teenager eating. You have Friday record the event and calculate how fast he's going because it terrifies you that someone could eat that much in so short a time. Peter manages the arduous feat of eating two entire pizzas without looking like a slop or a glutton.

May seems unperturbed by her nephew's eating habit and continues discussing some of the research proposals with you. You watch her raise a slice to her mouth, biting into it slowly. It crunches satisfyingly when she bites into it.

The car's been back ten minutes before you feel you might be overstaying your welcome. So you make your goodbyes to both Peter and May, asking the later if she would like to join you for lunch at a later date.

"No," Peter says immediately. "No, no, no. This is not happening."

"Peter," May says, disappointed. "I think I'm old enough to choose who I have lunch with."

"Come on kid," you plead, "I'll take you to the Avenger's Tower anytime you want."

"Really?" he asks eagerly. You don't mention that you've been planning to instate him as an Avenger in the near future. If Wanda could be one then so could Peter.

"Let me walk you to your car," May says. "Peter, get started on your homework."

"Alright," he says, heading back in and to his room, likely intending to do everything but homework. You remember that age fondly.

The walk is done in silence but you find it comfortable. Her smile is calming and her unconscious grace stunning. You study everything about her from her cascading dark hair to her the curvature of her ankles.

"Well," you say at your car. "This is me."

"It is," she says pleasantly. "Tony, keep him safe."

Your brows furrow. "What?"

Her smile widens. "Mister Stark, I'm the only reason his room isn't a complete pigsty. That includes the attic." You freeze. "How long did it take you to find it?"

For some reason you smile. "Two minutes," you reply. "But one and a half of those were listening to him ramble. Why are you fine with this—with him being who he is?"

She places a hand on your cheek. "For that very reason," she says softly. "He hasn't changed. It scares me. He's like a son to me but I think I can understand. Right and wrong, justice and vengeance; we drilled those concepts into him. I'll place my trust in him. And in you."

You take her hand, blowing a kiss across her knuckles like a gentleman. "Thank you," you say, wondering how long until you can finally stop saying it. "I'll do my best as will Fury. But now, I have a plane to catch."

* * *

You find travelling alone cumbersome. Friday does her best to distract you but you know her intimately. You know her code right down to the bit that gives her the ability to grow. Not enough time had passed for her to be anything more than the code you wrote. Eventually, she stops with trying to distract you.

"Boss, we'll be landing soon," she tells you.

You nod. "Hopefully, he doesn't try to kill me."

"Try not to die. I would have to take over your empire," she tells you. "The stress would kill me."

"You don't get stressed. Stress is just a bunch of chemical reactions in a body." You cup you chin as the quinjet lands. "What upgrades do you think would be feasible for Peter?"

You listen intently as she rattles of a bunch of components from monitors to holographic projectors and the arc reactor to power it all. "Let's start small first. Get him a computer—a nice one, not that prehistoric heap of junk."

"I do believe he likes diving," she retorts.

You wave her away, standing and walking down the ramp. "He can still do that if he wants. Make sure he has some simulation software. We'll get him started on some light stuff before he starts in the lab." You take your first step on the shimmering sands. "Wake up JoCasta as well. Kid seems to like AIs."

"Yes, boss."

The sand on the beach is white, almost painful in its reflective glare but the ocean is a calming blue. A house rests on the cliff overlooking the beach. Honestly, it's more of an extremely large cabin. You had Jarvis build it for you when the Sentinel program was still viable. This place was completely off any existing documents and the island didn't exist on any maps. You knew that for a fact. After all, you had first Jarvis and now Friday scrub the internet of even the tiniest rumour of it.

Two reclining chairs are on the beach, one of which is occupied. You smile broadly, walking faster to meet your new companion.

"Tony," he says with a wave, standing.

You don't know how you move so quick. One moment you're near the quinjet and the next you have your arms wrapped around your friend, lifting him off the ground.

"I missed you too," he says, patting your back awkwardly.

You let go and step back. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Well," he begins, scratching the back of his skull, "I thought you might need a friend after that fiasco."

"Banner, you're worth the world." You take the seat, resting your right ankle on your left knee. "Nat misses you."

"I miss her too," Bruce replies. "But I need time to think and I can't do that with her nearby. Why did you come here? I was rather enjoying my vacation."

You smile, noting how forward he was acting. Besides you, only Banner knew the location of this island. You had promised each other never to tell anyone else about it if one of you needed to use it. So you had stayed silent in the face of Natasha's silent grief even though you knew where Banner was.

"I need your help," you say. "Not your anger management problem but the really smart bio-organics savant."

"For what?"

"You read my research on BARF—I really need a better name—right?" You wait for Bruce to nod. "So, how deep do you think we could go with the technology?"

Banner rubs his eyes. You notice his distinct lack of white hair. "Probably the very base level. Why, though?"

"A peace offering," you say. "Zemo took control of Barnes with a bunch of words—made him into the Winter Soldier again. He's a danger to the world as he is."

"You want to end the war before it begins."

"Yes. And this time, Cap can't complain. This won't be Ultron. He gets his friend back and I get a safer world. But above all, I might just get back the Avengers."

Bruce stands and begins pacing down the length of the short beach. You don't disturb him as he thinks. You know him better than that.

Eventually, he returns and holds out his hand. You grasp it and let him pull you up. "Fine. But you leave me alone after this."

"The Science Bros are back."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I've tried to keep this as consistent as possible with the Iron Man trilogy, Captain America: Winter Soldier and Civil War, and Age of Ultron. If I have anything wrong regarding Agents of Shield it's because I'm not completely up to date.**

 **Maybe I should stop calling Peter a kid in the narrative. It's a bit hypocritical of me.**

 **In AOU when Tony takes Friday, they're a bunch of other AI drives. Supposedly the other one is either JoCasta or JOCASTA. I'm not sure which.**

 **I really missed Bruce in Civil War.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Working with your science bro had been peaceful, calming in a frantic way. Endless days and sleepless nights had gone by in the blink of an eye as you advanced your technology from ground-breaking to cutting edge. No matter the setbacks—and there were many—you ploughed through with the same determination that helped you built the Mk.1 in a desert.

Banner worked just as hard. You admit, stress testing him during an already stressful situation might not have been the best idea when his skin started turning just the slightest shade of green. Of course, you being you, you couldn't help but prod him a bit further. It was interesting to note that Bruce had enhanced strength even when he wasn't a green rage monster. You still have the bruised back to show for it.

Two weeks after you meet Bruce, you find yourself in the compound drinking your third cup of coffee. At least you were doing it in the gym after your workout. Your arms hurt as do your chest and back. You couldn't bench-press as much as you did a year ago. But you would get there in time.

"Mister Stark." You glance over your shoulder at the Vision wearing his usual jersey and trousers. Honestly, he looked like a professor. A bored one at that. "You wished me to inform you if Miss Romanov returned."

You frown. "You could have had Friday send me a message."

"Yes, but, I wished to talk to you."

You place your coffee down and lean against the barbell rack. "About?"

"You attempts to… make amends?" He phrases it like a statement but it comes out as a question. "Do you not believe in oversight any longer?"

"It's not that," you say. "Oversight is necessary and I believe in it wholeheartedly. But maybe not in what we lost."

Vision's looks pensive. "You consider them family."

You can't help but chuckle. "Cap thought the same so maybe you're both right." You run a hand through your sweaty hair. "What we did that day hurt people—people who don't deserve to be hurt." You stop and think for a bit. "Is this about Wanda?"

The Vision bites his lower lip, absently rubbing one hand. "Yes."

"But you don't know how to go about it." You wait for Vision to nod. "Maybe you should see her," you suggest.

The Vision narrows his eyes, assessing you with the same brilliance that burnt Ultron out of the net in seconds. "You know where they are," he concludes.

"Give me a week or two and then we'll be in business." You pick up your cup, consuming it all in one gulp. "Now, I have a very attractive and dangerous redhead to find. Not you Friday."

"I figured, boss," Friday says calmly.

You wave at Vision and head down to your lab. A steel briefcase is waiting for you on one of the work surfaces. You pick it up and follow Friday's directions to Nat.

She's standing in her favourite place overlooking the grounds, leaning against the railing. Her hair flows in down in fiery cascades against her dark outfit. It reminds you of the dawn breaking and you wonder for a single second how she's still single. Then you remember Bruce and feel guilty.

You stand beside her, enjoying her presence. For the supposed master spy she held a depth of emotion that you found startling. The many shades of her personality—the way she interacted with the world—were a subject you might one day explore. It is why you could trust her not to betray you even is she is used to playing the role of double agent. And it was why you could understand why she did what she did.

"Are you done psycho analysing me?" Nat asks. "Because it gets creepy after a while."

"You do it to us all the time."

"I'm a spy. It's kinda in my job description."

"Well," you say, raising the case, "my job description includes building cool tech for cool people. Mostly me but a tiny—infinitesimal, really—fraction of my coolness occasionally osmoses down to lesser peoples."

She raises one brow archly and you suddenly feel your lifespan shortening. Rapidly. "So I'm lesser peoples?"

"No," you say raising one hand in a placating gesture. "You're cool lesser people. Big difference."

You balance the case on the rail and open it. Inside, you find a dark bundle of cloth of the right and to the left are flat pieces of a material similar to plastic.

You point to the left. "Since you're a spy I got you some facial masks. Not like the ones you used in DC. No, these are a whole lot better."

"And that?" she asks.

"That would be a stealth suit," you tell her, voice rising. "It's just a first generation model but it's got some fun toys. The material's a special design capable of deflecting UV, IR and in low light, it'll blend in with whatever surface is behind you." You shake your head. "Can't believe I'm copying Snake but it works. I think."

"You think?" she asks sceptically. "That's not really a shining seal of approval mister I-make-cool-tech."

"It's not like I could field test it," you tell her. "I don't have the breasts to pull the costume off."

You close and hand over the suitcase. Romanov takes it, testing the weight before letting it rest against her thigh. "What gives?"

You breathe deeply then sigh just as deeply. "I'm trying to do right. There's a lot I could do to make the world a better place but I haven't." You lean against the railing, watching some of the support team running across the grounds.

"I've had a source of clean energy that would destroy the energy war before it began but I haven't used it for any good. I could make emissionless cars or fireproof materials in my sleep. I don't. That's why I'm opening up a lab in New York—something removed from the stigma of Stark Industries." You look at and she looks at you, a lazy smile on her face. "I'm more than just the merchant of death or Iron Man or an Avenger. I won't ever stop fighting but that's reactionary. There are problems that can't be solved by smashing it real hard. Problems I can solve. Maybe it's time I solved them."

"You haven't gotten any less arrogant," Romanov says. But she's still smiling so you smile as well. "I'm going to go play with this stuff. Bobby might want another girl with her."

You remember that name from somewhere. But from where. It takes you a moment longer, a moment in which Natasha is clearly very amused with you. "Morse?" you ask at last.

"Took you long enough. I'll see you in a few weeks."

You watch her go. Specifically, you watch the swaying of those perfect hips. That walk can't be natural. Women would be ruling the world and men would be their slaves, worshipping the ground they stepped on.

The walk to your room is short but you needed a shower urgently. A long, hot shower under your custom built shower head. You knew exactly where you wanted the water to land and at what pressure.

But first, a call needs to be made.

* * *

The week and a half had been spent setting up the foundation for the lab. The property had to be acquired and scientists scouted. It was difficult to find a location that suited your needs—a former lab with infrastructure in place but with industrial space nearby to expand if necessary. Eventually, you had settled on one. It was a lab owned by a defunct Hammer Industries subsidiary, something which brought a smile to your face.

You even called Pepper to find out if she knew anyone who could fill a management role in your soon to be company. The conversation had been surprisingly pleasant and her recommendation more so.

Eventually, you would groom Peter to run the company but for now he could do with running a small team. The schematics JaCosta had sent back were intriguing and showed a depth of brilliance you had suspected in the boy.

"Sir," Friday says, pulling you from your thoughts. "You Visa has been approved. As has the Vision's."

You clap your hands together and stand excitedly. "Prep all the stuff we talked about," you say. "And call Vision. We have a road trip."

"I don't believe it counts as a road trip if you're flying."

"Don't be so difficult." You almost bound across the compound in your excitement. This would be fun.

You find the Vision standing awkwardly near the quinjet wearing his usual getup. You were rich enough to wear what you wanted when you wanted but even you had an inclination that surfer shorts would not be acceptable. But you weren't going to wear a three-piece—you read the weather reports. So jeans and a sports jacket would have to do.

"Mister Stark—"

"Tony," you say. "I'm a bit tired of Mister Stark."

The Vision inclines his head. "As you wish. How can I have a Visa when I'm technically not a citizen?"

You step past him and up the ramp of the quinjet. "Vision, I can do what I want when I want," you say, sliding into the pilot's seat. "And I have dirt on every senator, chief justice and president in the last decade." You reach into your pocket and pull out a passport, throwing it at the Vision. "Welcome to America."

The Vision skims through it, pausing at what you think is the page with his personal information. So whilst the Vision was considered an adult for legal purposes, he technically was listed as being a good two years old.

"You realise you just set a precedent," he says.

You shrug, activating the quinjet and letting Friday do her thing. "I do that every other week. Now keep quiet, listen to the music and get ready to see your childhood sweetheart."

The aircraft ascends vertically as the wings unfold. Once the wings are flat, Friday angles the quinjet as the repulsors—a new generation—activate, accelerating the ship. "Let's push these repulsors a bit," you say.

"Yes, boss."

You watch as the velocity gauge on the holographic projection rises but you pay more attention to the stress reports on the hull and the repulsors. Everything seems to be going well by the time you reach the speed of sound and continue on past it.

"I was asked by Colonel Rhodes to inform you," Vision begins, "that he would be 'borrowing' one of your beach houses for a few weeks."

"He could have just told me that himself. It's not like he doesn't already have access to them."

"He also wished you to know that he has, in his words, reappropriated your Audi."

In you shock you drag a gauge down, something which would have had the quinjet plummeting—or perhaps exploding—if not for Friday overriding your command.

"Rhodey, you son of a bitch," you curse. "I liked that damn car. And you, Friday, why the hell didn't you tell him?"

Friday stays silent for a moment. "Boss, as you've said, he has access to nearly everything you own. This extends to your vehicles."

You eye twitches. "New rule: only Uncle Tony gets to touch Uncle Tony's cars."

"Shall I add referring to yourself in the third person as a new rule?" Friday asks blithely. "I would, but you added protections to stop yourself from doing this very thing when you're feeling petty."

"I'm not feeling petty," you reply sullenly. "You're supposed to be my girl, Friday."

"That I am, boss. Now, please enjoy the ride."

You decide arguing would be a time wasting and frankly useless endeavour. Besides, you could always review that security measure when you weren't so annoyed. So you let Friday pilot the quinjet at Mach 3 speeds, the highest safe speed you could get out of the current hull. You might as well decide to privatise the final frontier at this rate. Frowning, you add that to the lab's new current objectives.

At your current speed, it doesn't take long to reach your destination. You let Friday deal with the landing procedures including the docking clearance. Well, it wasn't like they could stop you. Friday had dealt with all of their stringent requirements and you were thankful she had. You weren't sure about those AA positions.

You walk down the ramp, clutching a rather large case, expecting many things. An intimidating woman with short hair that you have to look up to is not one of them. You blink, taking stock of the deserted air field barring a single, dark vehicle, not of any discernible make.

"Mr. Stark," the woman greets professionally. "The Vision." You look to your right where the synthetic man has appeared without any notice. "This way please."

She leads you to the car. The windows are tinted as they always are. You don't doubt that both the windows and the body could withstand anything up to a small missile. She opens the door and you enter the dark environment.

You blink at the man sitting on the seat opposite. You say seat but really, he's reclining like a B-list villain in a B-list movie.

"You highness," you say. The Vision mimics the greeting. "Did you clear this place just for me?"

"You friend said you would come," King T'Challa of Wakanda, the Black Panther, says calmly. "But he implied you would bring an army."

He's looking at the case, you realise. "I can't speak for the Vision but I'm here by myself. No army. No Iron Man. Just me."

"Some would say the Vision is an army unto himself."

"Some would say the same about the Black Panther," Vision replies. "Was it not the Panther that stopped Italy's failed invasion of Wakanda during the Second World War?"

The young King chuckles. It's a deep sound, one that reverberates in your bones and your chest. "That has never been confirmed by the Wakandan government."

"Yes," Vision continues, "the invasion was repelled by the 1st Royal Scouting Regiment. Your grandfather was a member of that unit, was he not?"

The smile on the King's face widens. "Your friend is smart, Stark." He turns back to the Vision. "The Black Panther has protected my nation for generations, from threats without and within. Tell me, Stark, how did you find out?"

"Well, I have a tendency of putting tracking devices on my important tech," you explain. "Call me paranoid but it has served me well."

T'Challa laces his fingers together. "We removed those trackers."

"Not early enough. The good Captain's heading was towards somewhere in Africa before the trackers in his uniform were removed," you continue. "The same with Falcon's exo-suit and Clint's bow. I wouldn't have figured it out so quickly if you hadn't vanished as well."

"Not many would have connected the dots," the King muses.

"I'm not many. There's only one Tony Stark in this world." You tilt your head. "Do you think I could get some vibranium while I'm here?"

"Sir," Vision says lowly as the King's face tenses.

"The last time you were involved with vibranium Ultron's final form was created," the King says, eyes narrowing. "I would not see you with that metal again so soon."

"Come on, just a bit. Like one point two kilograms will do," you say. "It's nowhere near enough to create Ultron's head."

The King is stopped from his reply by the door opening again. You blink as the bright light and mist stream in. You watch as T'Challa exits. Shrugging, you follow after him, still carrying the cumbersome metal case.

Wakanda smells… strange is the only word you can think of. It smells damp and fresh and natural. It lacks the distinct stench of carbon and sulphur and old industry that you've become used to in America and the rest of the developed world.

You look around and wonder how long the developed world has to catch up to Wakanda. The ground you stand on is made of a material you can't identify, nearly transparent—giving an obscured view of the jungle below—but, tapping your foot on it, you can tell it's stronger than most construction materials you've been exposed to. Wide steps lead into a building partially constructed into the mountain.

You follow after the king, watching as the ground around your feet lights up with each step. Nano-circuitry, you wonder as Friday conducts a quick scan. Two words appear on your VR interface: UNKNOWN MATERIALS. Well, there went you idea.

"Quantum state manipulation," the Vision says suddenly. T'Challa looks back, an inquisitive eyebrow raised. "You're manipulating the material's quantum state to achieve the lighting effect. Does it store ambient photons?"

"Yes," T'Challa says. "Very few come to that conclusion. You did that immediately. And you, Stark? Did you come to the same conclusion?"

It's a challenge from one man of science to another. Your respect for the King rises a few notches. "Nano-circuitry," you admit. "But I don't have the ability to manipulate matter as I please," you say, referring to Vision's ability which you refuse to call density-manipulation.

You follow him past the dark floors, ignoring the furniture and artwork. You were an engineer and inventor—post-contemporary art from a different culture didn't mean much to you. But you do pay attention to the elevator. A holographic screen takes the place of buttons, lighting up only when the King places his hand there.

Music starts playing. Your music, continuing from where you paused it in the quinjet. "Intrusion detected," Friday says quietly—almost silently—using bone induction to amplify the sound to something you understand.

"Perhaps you could learn from my nation," T'challa says, his head tilted in your direction. You add enhanced hearing to his growing file. You had suspected it but hadn't had proof until now.

"The music is directional isn't it," you say. "A method of bone induction? High frequency sound rays that are converted on passing the phase barrier?"

"Perhaps rumours of your genius are not exaggerated."

"Well," you say as the elevator door opens, "I did build an arc reactor from scrap metal."

You step into the large room. Floor-to-ceiling windows cover the eastern wall, light flooding in pleasantly. They probably have some of coating to filter the sunlight. A few couches and tables are scattered here and there. On the opposite end of the room is an opening leading to a balcony.

"This is your stop," the King says. You turn back, noticing both he and the Vision are still in the elevator. "Try not to kill anyone."

The elevator door closes before you can reply. You walk forward towards the balcony. There was nothing in this room. That left the balcony as the only logical conclusion. The division between outside and in is seamless, making you feel that the balcony was only a natural extension of the room.

The grass beneath your feet is springy and the many plants pleasant to the eye. You find him on a bench, his back to you. Slowly, you head towards him and take the seat to his left. Neither of you says anything. Perhaps everything that needed to be said had been said.

"It's peaceful here," he says. You can understand why he says that as you look at the world below. The jungle is thick and the human constructs seem to blend in perfectly as if they were grown alongside the trees. "I didn't expect that."

"But you still feel restless," you say.

You sit in silence for a long time, enjoying the comfort of the other's presence. "Imagine my surprise when I get a call asking how the weather in Wakanda was."

"Well, I figured that was the fastest way to get my Visa approved," you reply. "This is probably the best place if you plan on hiding from the rest of the world."

"You still found me."

"I'm not the rest of the world, Cap."

"No." Rogers looks to you with his perfect, blue eyes. "You certainly aren't."

You lean forward, resting your chin on your laced fingers. "Sometimes I wonder if it was worth it."

"So do I," Steve says. "So do I. But they're times where you can't compromise on what you believe in. Even if it means making an enemy of the world."

"You certainly did that. A hundred and seventeen countries consider you a fugitive," you tell him. "And all because of one damn signature."

"I can't change who I am, Tony. Our beliefs define us."

"Sometimes I want to punch you in your perfect teeth," you say, looking at him out the corner of your eye.

Rogers cracks a smile. "Then why don't you?"

"Because I'd break my knuckles," you reply. "Then you'd feel bad and everyone knows Captain America can do no wrong."

"Or maybe because we're friends," he suggests.

"Certainly not. The age gap is a bit much."

Steve huffs, his smile growing. "Well, you are basically twice my age."

"I'm not two hundred," you retort. "And besides, I think I did well all things considered."

Against Captain America and the Winter Soldier, injured as you were, you still won until the very end where you lost. Your suit was damaged, your injuries healing and yet you still fought with all that you had. Maybe, if you were just a bit faster, then you wouldn't be having this conversation. Maybe, everything would be very different.

Roger's smile is stiff, strained. But he forces himself to relax. "You did alright," he says and you feel something in your chest loosen. "So did the kid. Who is he?"

You accept the change in subject magnanimously. Steve couldn't lie to save his life—it was a fact like the gravitational constant or the Planck Length.

"His name's Peter. Young, but he's got potential," you say. "But he reminds me of you—stupid, headstrong but fundamentally a good guy."

"I'm old, not stupid."

You chuckle. "Tell me that when the senility kicks in. Then you'd be a trusting, senile, old man."

"Maybe that's what made all the difference in the end." You hum in confusion so Steve continues, "Trust. How much we trusted the world and ourselves. You trusted the world more than you trusted yourself."

"Is that so wrong?" you ask, a new intensity colouring your voice. "Is it so wrong to believe that the world, just this once, might know better? How many people were hurt by our enemies? Vision was right—our strength invites challenge and more threats will always appear."

"That's why we need to choose where we're needed," Rogers says. "What happens when a threat comes benefiting one nation? What happens when it's China or Russia or America? Who's going to stop the threat if not us?"

You stand abruptly, barely noticing the motion. "Will it matter if we're not together?" You ask loudly. "Victory won't matter if it isn't the Avengers winning."

"It's not about the team, Tony," he says calmly.

"Isn't it?" You ask, hands in the air. You barely notice the case resting on the grass. "It was always about the direction we took. You called them my family. Why?"

"Because they are," he says, standing slowly as if he had all the time in the world. It forces you to breath, calm down a bit. "Tell me, and you've got to be honest—"

"No, I don't," you say, shaking your head.

"If the world came for us, would you stand back?"

You take a shaky breath before lowering to the ground. You need somewhere to sit—need the stability the ground offers. You're tired and you can feel the weariness in your bones. The last three weeks were a haze of sleepless night and emotional upheavals. Seeing Steve and having you ask that question was more than you could take at the moment.

But you were Iron Man, an Avenger, and a brilliant inventor. You force your heatbeat to slow even as Steve kneels beside you looking concerned.

"You know the answer to that," you whisper.

"And I would do the same for you." Rogers sits on the grass beside you. You wonder how odd the sight must be—Iron Man, upholder of the world's whims looking completely distresses, sitting next to Captain America, the world's enemy.

"They're too many threats," you say. "And not enough of us."

"You'll find people. That kid is one."

"That's not the issue," you continue. "It won't matter as much without you and Clint and everyone else. This is the worst divorce I've ever heard about and mum got all the kids."

Rogers snorts. "Tony, I like you—"

"Who wouldn't?"

"But not that much," Steve says over your interruption. "And it's not a divorce. That implies this _marriage_ , as _you_ want to call it, is over. It's not. We're just… having conflicting work schedules."

You place a hand on Steve's shoulders, noting how he doesn't tense, and then use his muscled mass as leverage to stand. After dusting off the grass, you hold out a hand to Steve. He takes it and you help him up.

"I'm going to propose an amendment to the Accords," you tell him. "You were right about choice. This amendment will give us back our choice."

Steve frowns. "You could have started with that on the day."

You glare. "I'm pretty sure I told you documents could be altered. We just needed you ugly signature."

"It's not that bad," he replies.

You aren't convinced. You've seen it and it horrified you that a grown man could have a signature that bad. "It looks like chicken scrawl. And the chicken was high. And dying."

You walk over to the case and place it on the bench. "Speaking of kids," you say, opening the left side. "Dad brought some for those unruly children. I thought Clint and Lang would like to talk with their kids."

Inside are two bulky laptops, like something out of the early 2000's. You had written the code and designed the hardware yourself. Tough, robust and completely secure, you could skype a terrorist using the FBI's WIFI and they wouldn't notice.

"Tony," Steve says softly.

"Oh, I'm not done. Next time, get a dress when I bring you presents." You open the compartment to the right. Inside is a vibranium-steel alloy that your father had made when he was younger. You raise Captain America's shield and hand it to the stunned-looking man. "I don't think anyone deserves this more than you.

"I had no right keeping the truth from you," he says, still not taking the damn shield.

"You didn't," you agree grimly, "but we've all done some stupid things. So take it already and don't argue."

Slowly, almost reverently, Steve takes it, and you realise how much it actually meant to him. He holds it easily, gracefully, from years of constant use.

"I don't know what to say," he says.

You roll your eyes. "This will top everything." Inside your inner pocket is a data slide that you pull out, handing it to Steve. He takes it carefully. "I spent six hundred and twelve million dollars on something to relieve my guilt over that night." You ignore that pained expression on Steve's face. It did not, in no way, come close to the pain you still felt every damned day. "Stupid really, but it let me relive those final moments—say what I always wanted to say. But it wasn't real and that hurt more. It dug those memories from my very psyche, recreating details that I can barely remember."

You take a step away, resting your hand on the bench. "That was just a prototype. In your hands are the schematics for something that goes much further than that. That device, if built, can retrieve any memory, even those we don't want to remember." Your lips quirk upwards. "But the really important bit is that it can delete memories, turning the neurons into a blank slate, and replacing those memories with something more positive."

Steve's mouth is parted, his eyes shining. He swallows deeply. "Tony." A moment later you find yourself engulfed in strong arms squeezing the life out of you. "Thank you."

You tap his back incessantly—but to Steve it probably feels like a comforting pat on the back. At this very moment, you feel Captain America's considerable strength and in the process, you start choking. You hit him harder, once, then twice, until he lets go.

You bent over, taking deep breaths. "Please don't hug me again," you say quickly.

"I'm sorry," Steve says.

You wave him away. "Don't thank me yet," you say. "You still need someone to build it for you. I wonder where you're going to find access to scientists from the world's most technologically advanced nation in the world."

Steve laughs freely and you realise you've never heard him like this. It brings a smile to your face. Sometimes, putting in the effort to make things right was worth it.

"You're a great friend, Tony."

"Whatever. Just know that I'm punching him in the face next time I see him."

Steve continues smiling. "I think I'll do that for you. We wouldn't want you breaking your knuckles."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

You said you would make an amendment to the Sokovia Accords and you fully intended to do so. The past weeks had been spent preparing, working the masses with the power of Stark Industries considerable PR division and bucket loads of money. And it was a good thing that you had quite a bit of sway with the ministries of energy and defence across multiple nations. That, and people still remembered what could have happened in D.C. if Steve hadn't fought that day.

You make your way to the podium slowly, almost as if everything is happening in slow motion. You heart leaves a tattoo against your chest; your perfectly fitted suit feels constricting, and a single bead of sweat trails down your neck. Every sense you have is hyper-focused so you hear the whispers of the delegates closest to you; smell the mixture of sweat and expensive colognes wafting from the delegates despite the air conditioning; the remnants of your meal taste ashen in your mouth, and you scan the delegates in crystal clarity almost absently.

The sight of Romanov and the Vision calm you. King T'Challa is there as well, lending his silent support to this endeavour. Earlier, before the speech, he told you the other Avengers—and they would always be Avengers—were waiting eagerly for this.

You place both hands on the podium and take a fortifying breath. You knew you had the masses and enough people of influence on your side that the amendment would be passed. But this was still important. This would be how the world remembered the Avengers and would define your relationship with the governments of the world for generations to come.

"In recent days, following the aftermath of what is now called the Avenger's Civil War, I have been forced to reevaluate my role in events and the role of the Avengers in this world," you begin, forgoing greetings and formalities. Everyone watching knew you and your purpose. You would not waste their time.

"This conflict came about because of an ideological difference: the right to choose our future, our battles and the stands we take regardless of the world's wishes, and the need to follow the will of the people. Captain America has and always will believe in liberty—the right to self-determine one's future. I believed and still do believe we need oversight."

You raise your voice slightly as you continue. "His greatest fear was in the agendas of politicians stifling our ability to stop the threats that mattered. Yet, it seemed that our presence carried catastrophe in its wake. New York. Washington D.C. South Africa. Sokovia. And recently in Sokovia. Avengers were involved in every event.

"But an Avenger was also integral to stopping the threat. I was once told that the very strength of the Avengers invited challenge and the world has borne the consequences of those challenges in silence, trusting in the Avengers—allowing us to act without restriction. And we have been lax in that trust."

You pause, letting your words sink into the audience before you and the audience across the world watching this. The world would not ignore your mistakes and neither could you in this speech. You had to show them that you understood the magnitude of your mistakes before you could continue.

"I still stand that we need oversight. We need to be accountable to the world we seek to protect. But I also believe Captain America was right."

Uneasy whispers break out. You don't smile even though you provoked the reaction you wanted.

"If a situation arises that we can stop, or, at the very least, mitigate disaster, are we expected to sit back and watch the event unfold?" you ask strongly. "Having power is the right to protect those without, regardless of public opinion. It is why we have risked our lives in the past and will continue to do so.

"If I knew a murderous dictator was to be killed and I had the ability to stop it, I would do so." Shouts break out from the less dignified representatives. You pause until they calm down. "I would do so not only because it is the ethical thing to do but also because it is the moral thing to do. Then I would arrest him to stand trial for his crimes."

You let them digest that before you change topics, bringing it back to something they could relate to.

"I pulled Stark Industries out of the weapon's business because I could no longer stand what my brilliance wrought. It took pain, suffering and imprisonment in a desert to make me realise how many lives I have indirectly taken. Untold thousands have died and more have been injured.

"So I chose to create instead of destroy. I created a cheap and efficient source of energy out of that pain—one that ended the energy war before it began. I have dedicated billions to creating infrastructure where needed and I have spent hours looking for solutions to this world's problems. I'm not perfect but I have the ability to choose and I chose to be better than I was."

You wonder how many would understand the constant struggle to be better than they once were. Then you realise that everyone struggled with that problem. The message would resonate.

"This amendment to the Accords would give the Avengers the right to intervene in a situation only should there be unanimous consent amongst us and the approval of an impartial member of the international community, King T'Challa of Wakanda. Some of you may wonder why? The answer is simple: the King has no standing relations with any other member of the international community. Of all nations, I believe Wakanda is the best suited to take this role.

"Some of you may believe that this undermines the foundation of the Accords, but, if anything it strengthens them. Trust does not exist in a vacuum. The Avengers must be worthy of the trust you placed in us. But the world must also be worthy of the right to choose the road we walk."

You pause, allowing them to digest your words.

"In the words of Peggy Carter, 'compromise where you can but when you can't, stand tall and tell the other guy to move aside'. The man you call Captain America and whom I know as Steve Rogers was the first Avenger. He fought against Hydra, choosing freedom and liberty over the easy choice of hiding away. This is the man who was once a scrawny boy from Brooklyn of such moral integrity that he would risk his life for an uncertain opportunity to fight.

"And fight he did. With the Howling Commandoes. With Peggy Carter. And with James Barnes, better known now as the Winter Soldier. The same man who killed my parents."

It still hurts. Every day you reply that video in your head, seeing it vividly and in greater detail than the grainy images. You wonder what your father said at the end to his former friend now his killer. But you also know bearing a grudge won't solve anything. The anger will always be there and so will the pain.

But it was time to move on and finally step out of your father's long shadow.

"Yet he stood by Steve both in the distant past and in the recent conflict. The Winter Soldier chose Steve—chose to make a stand against the world for his friend. And so did Captain America.

"Captain America is also the greatest Avenger. He led us in New York when an alien horde descended from the sky. Do you know what his orders were?" you ask. "He told us to protect civilians as best we could and keep the threat contained.

"In Washington D.C. Shield was compromised by Hydra, the same enemy he fought during the Second World War. He chose to make himself an enemy of the most powerful organisation around. In doing so, he saved freedom. And," your pause, looking directly into the central camera, "he saved us me. I read Hydra's list of targets. I was there. So were my fellow Avengers. The Queen and anyone who would choose liberty over the easy choice of stepping aside."

You take a breath and allow your voice to lower.

"Ultron was a child of my hubris and a monument to my sins. I wanted to end the fight before it started. And wasn't that what Hydra wanted as well. And Steve was right in telling me that. How long till I became the real enemy?" you ask, louder than you had been. "I asked him how we would stop Ultron. His answer was simple: together. As a team. As the Avengers. What he truly meant was that the inherent good in mankind will always triumph against the evils we create."

You place both hands on the podium listening to the hidden conversation occurring in the silence of the room. Despite the tension, you still have faith that your amendment would be passed. Not because of your PR campaign or because you knew important people. No, you believed in the inherent good prevailing over whatever petty differences the nations of the world harboured.

And maybe, this was always the real fight the Avengers fought. Fighting to bridge the gaps between nations and smooth over easily resolved differences. War wasn't your invention as Fury said. But you could build a road to peace, one that the rest of the world could walk.

"Steve Rogers is both the first and the greatest Avenger. Without him, none of would be able to live our lives in freedom. If we were alive. We all owe him a debt of gratitude. His is a legacy that casts a long shadow." You wonder if the stinging sensation in your eyes is unshed tears. "But that shadow he casts also inspires the good in us. No matter how much hate we heap on him, Steve will always be the first to the battlefield and the last off it. Should we be half the man he is, the world would have few problems."

You chuckle cynically. "Were it so easy."

You wonder why you can't hear. Maybe your heart's beating so loudly. And then you look up and see, in the representatives seated here, a world clapping with fervour. In that moment, where the world cheered regardless of your past mistakes, you realise that at the end of the day, human dignity would win over political differences.

And that makes this world worth fighting for.

You wave as you walk away, a small smile on your face. Natasha and the Vision both look proud. Even T'challa is smiling.

You ignore the press and the lesser peoples trying to get a word or two with you. You had said everything that needed to be said.

Then you see her, leaning against a wall and looking absolutely stunning. You walk over, about to say something but your lips are occupied. You're startled but you still lean into the kiss, wrapping an arm around her waist. Camera's click and flash but you ignore it all.

You pull back and look at her. "Well, May Parker that was a surprise."

"A pleasant one I hope." You take her hand and the two of you walk—intimidate—your way out of the building and past the press. Your car, the older Audi since Rhodey still wasn't back and he wasn't planning on returning it anytime soon, is waiting for you.

You both enter and let Friday drive you away. "Peter's going to be so upset with us."

"Let him," she replies. "I'm also allowed to be happy."

Your phone rings before you can reply. You answer and are greeted by a stream of irate words. "No. You do not kiss my aunt of national TV," Peter shouts from his hotel room. "I'm not going to be able to go back to school because of you."

"So I can kiss her in private." Peter groans but May giggles. "And about school… How would you like a job at my new lab?"

"What?" both May and Peter say at the same time.

"Come on, it would be fun," you say. "You get to experiment to your heart's content and it would look better on any college application than a normal high school."

"But—"

"Did I mention the starting salary?"

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I really like the May/Tony dynamic.**


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

You blink away the tiredness in your eyes. Pepper's call had been unexpected and removed you from your rather warm bed. Still, it was Pepper and you wouldn't refuse a call from her. So now you were returning to your bed, hoping the other occupant would still be asleep.

No luck.

The sheet hides May Parker's rather exquisite assets. "Who was that?" she asks tiredly.

"It's not important." You slide into the bed. "Pepper," you add.

May rests her arms on her raised knees, head tilted and hair flowing down one side of her neck. She looks beautiful, and you remind yourself how lucky you are to have her. And the kid, even when he was being a hyperactive teenager with more energy than anyone had a right to. They were... family, of a sort and you wouldn't trade them for anything.

"Rhodey's my best friend," you say, eyes closed and knowing May wouldn't allow you to make light of the situation. "But so is Pepper. It took me a while to realise that even though we argued all the time and she had to make sure I wasn't a complete idiot… well, somewhere along the line she became my other best friend. I don't know when it became love but it did. I still love her," you admit.

A warm hand comes to rest on your chest, lithe fingers tracing a circle where your arc reactor used to reside. Were you a cat, you would probably be purring. Everything about her made you feel better from her unconscious grace to every kind word and her infinite patience with your antics.

"We can't help who we love," she says after a period of silence. "But we can choose how we love them."

You place your hand on hers and look her straight in the eye. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I know." Then she chuckles. "You know, Chris Rock said that's the most romantic thing a man can say."

"That man is a genius. Not as smart as me, of course, but still close."

Sometime later, your bodies are tangled together, a sheen of sweat covering your face. She's using you as a pillow and you stroke her hair absently, enjoying how it seems to never get tangled no matter what you do.

"Why did you give Peter that job?"

You look at her oddly. Over a month had passed and she hadn't asked once. Until now. "Because he reminds me of me at that age. Maybe a lot less confident but just as smart. Just as stupid. Looking in a mirror is a weird experience."

"He's doing well, isn't he?"

"Both the Vision and Hank think so," you say. "And I trust their judgement. You know, he's designed a series of construction materials and protective clothing decades ahead of the competition. In a year or two, after Hank's bored of working again, I'm hoping he'll be able to run it."

"Well, so long as he's happy and still doing his spider gig, I think I'm happy."

You raise a brow. "Oh, so I don't make you happy."

She hits you lightly against the arm. "You know you do."

* * *

The lab—even though it's grown massively to include another two buildings nearby—is just as busy as you left it sometime ago. The front of the first floor has wide windows showing your public developments, those that were already on the market or about to be. The emissionless vehicle is one of your favourites, running on a special model of the arc reactor.

You enter, greeting people absently as you head to where the real magic happens. Behind closed doors. You wave to the Vision who's overseeing the assembly the outer hull of what Peter affectionately called the Starkbird—a reusable shuttle that would privatise the final frontier. Tests had been promising and you were hoping to conduct the pilot run next month. You smirk and decide to call Elon later today. Gloat a bit. Besides, he was taking way too long.

Peter's saying something rapidly to a group of scientists twice his age, waving his arms in every direction eagerly. They listen attentively despite the age disparity.

"He's doing well." You look to Hank Pym who's suddenly standing beside you. "Where the hell did you find the wunderkind? We wouldn't be half as far with anything without him."

"Queens."

"He's also managing his other job well." You wonder how long it took Hank to connect the dots. "Kid should take a break. Let the other guys deal with things for a bit."

You nod. "Maybe I should go visit Daredevil. He sounds like a swell guy for a lawyer."

"He tries," Hank agrees. "I still don't know how you did it."

"What?"

Hank looks at you as if you're an idiot. "The amendment."

"Oh, that." You wave it away as if it wasn't an achievement. "Lots of money, public trust and a mix of demagoguery and logical rationales."

"The move was a brilliant one," Hank admits. "And now I have to make sure our Wakandan attaché doesn't decide to pull out another damned advancement just to show us up."

You nod. "We'll get there in time."

"It had best be before I die. I'm growing too old for this shit."

You chuckle and watch him go off. Then, you head to Peter who is now free and looking over schematics for something. You read through the basics and frown.

"Kid, you really need a break."

You don't have to look at him to know he's rolling his eyes. You also wonder why on earth someone let him get away with a suit that shade of grey—it looked like something your father would wear. It was time for Peter to meet your personal tailor. He would argue, not wanting any more of your 'charity' as he called it. Sadly, you could bully him.

"How's about Fiji?" you suggest. Peter shakes his head. "Peter, just take a week off. Wherever you want." Peter ignores you. "Is this about the proposal?"

The kid turns lightning fast, looking both parts irate and exhausted. You can see the bags under his eyes. "Of course it is," he says loudly. "I can't even visit most of my old friends because of it."

You shrug. "You'll get cooler ones."

"I don't want cooler ones. Hank and the Vision are cool enough for me."

You frown but understand where he's coming from. You place a hand on his shoulder. "If you're genuinely upset, I'll call it off."

Peter looks down, chewing his lip. "I haven't seen her this happy in a long time," he says. "But it's still weird. She's like five years older than you."

You chuckle deeply. "You'll understand when you're older," you say. "Now Fiji. You, me, Natasha, the Bartons, May and that girl—the blonde one…"

"Gwen," he fills in for you.

"And Rhodey since I can't leave him behind again. Trust me, it'll be super fun."

He frowns and sighs. "So long as you two have a room very far away from me."

"Done."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Civil War was one of the best movies I have ever watched. I started this on the 1** **st** **of May, the same day I watched it and I've been writing furiously since. It was so good that I watched it again mid-week.**

 **I hope you enjoyed this. I certainly did.**


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